She was huddled in a corner of a pitch black room.
Soda cans, trash, insects and rodents,
covered the floor,
the bed.
The girl breathing but decomposed.
Locked away with a padlock and key.
she,
a prisoner,
held by her mind,
knew only the attic as her world,
her home.
screams pierced the hood where neighbors heard,
but turned their ears to the silent denial.
“She’s not our child!”
Lucidity cracked, intelligence gone,
stripped by paranoia.
The hidden reality,
the zone of comfort
protection from the conscious.
Years passed by and help breaks down the door.
The mummified life, stands.
Love finally felt in the fragile mind,
whose heart was closed, but not blind.
She opened it to the only one who cared.
A stranger.
A woman.
copywritten
Michelle Poet
July, 2001